


a small fire burning

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [165]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: (I guess????), Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, F/F, Getting Together, Lars Gottlieb's A+ Parenting, M/M, but like if you took it and did something TOTALLY different with it lol, implied depression, loosely inspired by hannihaki aus, now with an actual conclusive ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25421254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: There's no such thing as an emotion that's too small.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, implied Karla Gottlieb/Vanessa Gottlieb
Series: newmann one-shots [165]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286762
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	a small fire burning

**Author's Note:**

> [thxstral asked](https://thxstral.tumblr.com/): ["Whump scenarios: ✘⚫️✈️" - "✘: forehead kisses" - "✘: forehead kisses" - "✈: reaching out for someone [bonus points if they mumble! their! name!]"](https://pacificrimdyke.tumblr.com/post/624162197102379008/whumpbox-sick-whump-scenarios-send-a-symbol)  
> anon asked: ["! for the ask? 🥺" - "!: that classic collapse into someone’s waiting arms"](https://pacificrimdyke.tumblr.com/post/624162197102379008/whumpbox-sick-whump-scenarios-send-a-symbol)  
> anon asked: "prompt: "Right now, I just want you. Even though you don't believe me, and it's very, very rude of you." "
> 
> EDIT 24/07/20: this didn't initially have a terribly conclusive ending because i wrote it in about six hours, and so i wrote another one thousand words to round it off properly

Everyone has flowers growing in their veins. It’s as much a part of humanity as the blood that pols when something breaks the skin, or the tears—both often caused by the pain of the flowers. Many romanticise it—after all, reason poets, what is more worthy of wonder than the process of, under the weight of emotion, the skin bowing and splitting and flowers bursting forth?

Hermann’s twelve when the first blossom comes in. He’s just hit his hip against a wall corner and dropped the plate he was holding, the fine porcelain, painted a steely grey with a white pattern on it, shattering against the tile. 

His father looms over him. “Clumsy boy,” he snarls; and, before he can even try to apologise, to offer his saved allowance to buy a new one, he’s drawn back his hand and, in a flash, struck him across the face; sent him reeling back and falling to the floor with a cry.

At the sound, his face hardens; and he advances on him. “Gottliebs don’t _cry out_ ,” he sneers.

Hermann cowers away; hip and leg and cheek throbbing, but barely paying attention to it, mind so taken over with white-hot terror and fear—he’s twice his size at least, and Hermann’s seen him snap a behemoth of a dog’s spine with his bare hands.

Pain cuts through the fear a moment later, like a knife held in the fire, scalding hot—in his periphery, gaze still locked on his father’s twisted face, he sees white petals blossom forth on his arms; blood welling up with them.

He catches sight of them, too; and anger changes to disgust—flowers are, in his mind, the mark of those too weak to control their reactions, a trait essential in a Gottlieb. “Clean yourself up,” he spits, and stalks away.

For a few moments, Hermann lays there, trembling; blood trickling out from behind the flowers; silent, terrified, wide-eyed; tears pouring forth.

Then, once his mind slows down enough for proper thought, he drags himself, painfully, up from the ground; arms burning and shaking with the effort, and his leg no longer aching and throbbing but on fire.

Breaths come quick and shallow—this is the worst pain he thinks he can remember ever being in; enough that it’s making his head spin; the edges of his vision hazy and blackening; and he has to brace against the counter for support.

Time passes agonisingly slowly; the progress, step by tiny step, sending pain lancing through him. He refuses to look at his arms; drags, with the broom that’s mercifully close at hand, the pieces of the broken plate close enough that he can pick them up and set them on the counter without actually having to bend his knees to reach them.

And then, the gruelling journey to his room, unaided—siblings busy, or, in Bastien’s case, asleep in his crib, no one but Lars to help him—and, cheek stinging still, the memory of the man towering over him, Hermann feels bile rise in his throat at the prospect of asking his _father_ to help.

When he finally makes it into the room, he collapses onto the bed with a strangled, choked cry; quickly bitten off.

The lack of pressure helps with the pain some, and, exhausted, he lays back, staring at the ceiling.

He catches sight, again, of the flowers—snowdrops, he thinks, already wilting a bit, for they never last long before falling away and leaving the skin unblemished again. Customarily, the first flowers are a cause for celebration—they symbolise the first step in the change from child to adult—but all he can think of is the fear that brought them forth, and the pain that they brought with them.

So he closes his eyes and pretends that, if he can’t see them, they’re not there.

A knock on his door wakes him—he’s not sure when he drifted off—, and, mind still sleep-addled, he tries to raise himself, only to fall back with a hiss of pain as the motion jolts his leg.

“Hermann? Are you alright?”

It’s Karla’s voice, full of worry—she must have registered his hiss of pain. When he doesn’t manage to form a reply, she says, “I’m coming in.”

The door opens; and, from his position, he watches her expression change from worry to _terror_ . “Hermann, your _leg—_ ”

“I fell,” he rasps. “It’s—fine.” The strain on his voice mustn’t be fully hidden, though, and her eyes darken.

But when she speaks, her voice is soft. “Will you let me look?”

He swallows, and then, after a beat, nods. 

She moves forward; hands slow and cautious, as she pulls the leg of his trousers up.

He wants to look away, but he can’t; and watches the fabric pull back to reveal deep, angry bruises, juxtaposed with the white flowers, crushed beneath the weight of the thick fabric, that fall away—the same kind as on his arms.

Karla’s lips purse. “We need to take you to a doctor,” she says, tersely.

Hermann opens his mouth to protest. “I don’t really think—”

“Hermann.” Her gaze is flinty. “I’ve taken multiple first-aid courses, alright, I know what a bad injury looks like—and the fact that you even _let_ me look at it shows that you’re hurting _really_ badly.” She closes her eyes, and swallows. “I...I’m not sure, but...I think it could be broken.”

Hermann stares blankly at the foot of the bed. “Oh,” he says.

“Alright, let’s—”

With a bit of manoeuvering, Karla manages to get him into Dietrich’s car; and manages, also, to convince Dietrich to give her the keys.

The drive there is quiet; but not in the way that comfortable silences are—this silence feels brittle and charged, like it could break at any moment like the plate did earlier, and cut into him. The thought makes him feel sick; so he closes his eyes and tries not to think about anything in particular.

It takes half an hour for them to call him in; and when they do, Karla glares at the nurses who try and keep her from following after him.

“Thanks,” Hermann whispers, sitting in one of the hospital’s wheelchairs.

She doesn’t reply; but she reaches, wordlessly, to take his hand; and squeezes it; the gesture small but immeasurably reassuring.

After a physical examination, and then, an x-ray, the doctor attending him—Doctor Bauer; a tall, auburn-haired woman—returns to his side with a grim look.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Hermann asks, quietly; and she nods.

“Yes—and I’m afraid that it’s not just one break, either; your hip and femur are both fractured—you’re lucky that the bone didn’t nick the femoral artery. But...” She hesitates. “There’s...quite a bit of nerve damage—the bone crushed them. You’ll heal, but it’s unlikely you’ll ever regain the full range of motion that you previously had.”

His planned future flashes before his eyes and crumbles; the image of himself in a space shuttle, hand lifted proudly, snuff out of existence. He swallows. “Oh.”

She gives him and Karla a bit more information; but Hermann feels caught in a fog; and barely notices when she leaves. 

Karla’s at his side again. “Dr. Bauer says you’ll need to stay the night. Do you want me to stay with you?”

“I—” his voice cracks; for what, he doesn’t even know; he’s just... _numb_. “Yes,” he says, finally.

She nods. “Alright. I’m going to get us something to eat, and I’ll be right back, alright?” Her voice is steady, but her hands are shaking; and Hermann catches sight of coral petals peeking out from beneath her hair—terror, he realises; she’s _afraid_ for him.

He swallows thickly, and nods, not trusting himself to speak, and leans back against the pillows on the hospital bed and closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

Karla’s there when he wakes up, a small tray on her lap, and she looks like she’s fallen asleep. When Hermann moves, though, crinkling the thin sheet, her eyes fly open. “Are you—?”

“Does father know?” he asks, cutting her off; imagining Lars’ fury and knows that she’s probably thinking the same thing.

She shakes her head. “No. He thinks you’re in your room—I told him that you’re doing schoolwork, and locked the door behind me.”

Hermann relaxes slightly. “Good,” he breathes. “Alright. Did...did Dr. Bauer say when I could be discharged?”

Karla frowns. “She only said she’d keep you for a few more hours—you slept through the night—but I think she wants you to stay longer.”

“I _can’t,_ Karla, I—” his breath catches; hands bunching up the thin, starched material of the sheets. “I—I have a tourney tomorrow. If I miss that...” 

Silence stretches between them, thick and heavy, and then, finally, her head bows. “Fine. I’ll...I’ll ask Dr. Bauer if they can discharge you early, you’ll have to be in a wheelchair—you can’t possibly hide that from him.”

His chest tightens; heart thumping rabbit-quick. “I know,” he croaks. “But I—it’ll be worse if I miss the tourney. I can...I can tell him that I fell while trying to balance on the ladder to get a book off of one of the tall bookshelves.”

“...alright,” she says; quiet. For a moment, after she rises, he thinks she’s going to say what they’re both thinking— _this isn’t fair, it’s not fair for him to do this_ —but she’s a Gottlieb through and through, and so she just picks up the tray and sets it next to Hermann, the plastic wrapping on the crackers shining under the bright lights, and turns and opens the door to go find Dr. Bauer, and leaves him alone again.

Hermann attends the tourney in the wheelchair. Lars takes one look at him and barely even lets him get through his rehearsed explanation before saying, “At least it wasn’t your head, I suppose.” He spends the entire tourney glaring daggers at Hermann from the attending adults.

Hermann, naturally, gets every question correct; though that just makes Lars’ glare more baleful—now he can’t berate Hermann for not doing well enough. Oh, he’ll find a reason to yell at him, of course, but not for this, because they’ve given Hermann a medal for most correctly answered questions, and his school’s team is first place, and Karla is cheering with his peers’ parents.

Karla takes the train back with him; Lars _forgets_ them there and takes the car back home after storming out. Hermann’s fairly certain that they’ll get a multi-day passive-aggressive treatment, but he refuses to feel bad beforehand.

“Are you alright?” Karla asks, quietly; sat by his side on the train; and her gaze is even and unperturbed to the naked eye, but the twitch of her lip and the draw of her brows betrays stormy inner thoughts.

Hermann grimaces. “I won,” he says, and leaves it at that; the _that’s good enough_ unspoken. 

It’s not until a week later that the anger hits him; too many days of dealing with Lars’ absurdity and the itching ache of his leg brings it all to head.

“Your brother’s in the paper,” Lars says, over breakfast. He’s been forced to attend as he has every day for as long as he can remember. Lars always sits at the head of the table—it makes it easier for him to stare his children down. 

Hermann bites back an uncaring grunt; instead says, “I shall send him my regards—what is it, the opening of his medical practice?”

“Mm. And doing quite well already—you ought to take a page from his book..”

“Father,” Karla says; short and clipped; but it’s not enough, because he’s already continuing. 

“Perhaps even...bring honour to our name, if that’s even _possible_ for you,” he adds; affecting innocence, but his gaze is calculating and cruel and tears into Hermann. 

“ _Perhaps,_ ” Hermann hisses, blood boiling magma, “you ought to _consider_ learning what honour is _yourself_ before you lecture _me_ about it.”

The words come without thought; and then, a second later, he winces at a slight prick of pain, but ignores it. “Just a _thought_ ,” he says, and picks up his fork—when did he drop it?; or, at least, tries to; because he can’t get a proper grip on it with the pounding in his ears and the shaking of his hands. 

There’s a silence; or maybe not; his father is probably speaking, but he can’t hear it, the tidal wave of rage dragging him down. 

When he finally calms, having wheeled himself into the bathroom and splashed his face with water, snarling at the feeling until it passes and leaves him quiet and hollow, eyes stinging, he notices a few red poppy petals that still remain in the sink, bruised and crumpled, and the shiny pink of healing skin on the backs of his hands. 

He stares at them for a bit, and wonders how many more times he’ll see that shiny pink.

* * *

It takes over two full years for Hermann to realise that, perhaps, he is not the same as others. Oh, academically, perhaps, he’s always known that; has always been ahead of his age peers; and with his disability, most certainly; but it’s not until he’s fourteen that he realises this holds true in other areas as well. 

They’re at Vanessa’s. She’s invited them over for a film—something American he can’t remember the title of, and whose plot doesn’t seem to really exist. They make popcorn and Karla and Vanessa talk about school—it’s their last year before they go off to university. 

At some point, Karla dozes off; head falling slightly into Vanessa’s shoulder. For a second after she realises what’s happened, she freezes; as if unsure of how to react; and then when Hermann—who has not been paying attention to the film but _has_ paid attention to his sister’s love life—gives her a minute smile, she relaxes; a large, joyful smile spreading across her face, cheeks reddening as she gazes at Karla. 

And just like that, a few little yellow buttercups burst from just beneath her jaw. 

She startles; the delicate flowers falling away, and the motion disturbs Karla. “Wha…?”

“Nothin’, bunny, go back to sleep,” Vanessa murmurs, and her hand comes up to hold Karla’s. A few seconds later, she’s asleep again; and the buttercups have spread up the side of Vanessa’s jaw, almost to her ear. Hermann feels like he’s intruding on something—what, he’s not sure, but Vanessa and Karla are in their own world. 

He turns away. 

It’s the first time he’s seen flowers of positive emotions, though; and he realises with a startling clarity that he’s never had them—for anger, yes; and pain and frustration and sorrow, but never pride or joy or happiness. 

Hermann sinks back into the armchair and pretends he’s paying attention to the film. 

Over the years, though, it becomes one of his greatest sources of shame—shame, which can blossom forth bright blue forget-me-nots, unlike the fleeting, shallow moments of happiness he feels. 

So he doesn’t talk about it—far easier to just pretend no emotions affect him; to hide one hand in his pocket and force others’ attention away from the one gripping his cane so they don’t see the poppies, or, more rarely, snowdrops, on the days his pain is the worst. He bears it like a badge of pride, almost, after a while. 

* * *

Newton Geiszler is the first to make him reconsider in proper. 

He’s a contradiction—and that draws Hermann closer to him. A year younger, he’s already gotten multiple PhDs at the tender age of twenty one; and all of his academic articles are brilliant and well thought out—the total opposite of how he writes in his letter to Hermann. 

Long and rambling, it veers off the topic—kaiju research—multiple times over seven pages. To read it, one would never guess the academically renowned, tenured professor he is. 

Hermann spends two days trying to figure out how to reply—Geiszler’s honorifics are changeable; sometimes he is _Herr Gottlieb_ , and others, _Hermann_ with a line drawn sharply beneath it. The man is a puzzle Hermann doesn’t know the solution to—and he craves to solve him. 

So he tries to write; finds the words slipping from his grasp—ten times over two days, he fails; until finally he has _something_ , and sends it; and then realised it’s horribly worded and embarrassing and, dear lord, he’s made a terrible fool of himself, hasn’t he?

Geiszler notices it, too; of course he does; infuriatingly brilliant; and he has the gall to pick it out and tease him for it. _Anxious fan?_ he writes; the _x_ curling; and Hermann can practically hear the ribbing. _Don’t worry,_ Geiszler adds; _I don’t bite, I swear._

That makes Hermann’s lips twitch involuntarily; were Karla with him, rather than multiple countries away, she’d tease him for it.

 _Just tired,_ Hermann fires back. _I think I’d die of embarrassment if i were a quote un quote fan of yours._ That’s not true—he’s dying of embarrassment already; has read every paper he can get his hands on, not that Geiszler needs to know that.

Geiszler’s next response is more measured; Hermann’s was, after all; he must be returning the favour; and that, in and of itself, draws Hermann along; and before he knows it, they’ve been speaking for two years, and _Newton_ is something of a dear friend.

And yet—still, his fingers bleed with frustration and white blossoms, and his anger brings up pale cherry blossoms; and no matter what he achieves, nor how much his fondness for Newton grows, until it feels like a wildfire burning in his lungs, making him gasp desperately for air, for Newton’s words, there are no dandelions in his palms, or heather in the hollow of his shoulders; no wild red roses when Newton’s letters arrive, filled with praise and banter, though he feels like he might burst, the emotions a roiling mess.

Then again—those are never as strong as his anger, or his exhaustion, or his fear; never enough to cause his blood to react. He resents himself for it, a bit; tucks it away, but it sits there, and festers.

Perhaps he’s hoping for a change; perhaps that’s why he proposes they meet. He ought to have known it was doomed from the start. He certainly knows the instant that he locks eyes with Newton and the biologist grins, bluebells appearing on his bared, tattooed arms, while none break Hermann’s skin despite the excitement he feels, or believes he ought to feel, or—

* * *

Newton, four years later, is still an unsolved puzzle, Hermann reflects, tinged with irritation, as he walks into their shared laboratory. It’s mid-May, and Hong Kong is warm and muggy; and Newton has left his work sprawled across his stainless steel tables, festering in the weather. Were he not accustomed to this already, he knows he would be ill.

The other mathematician they share the lab with—one Doctor Julian Adams—, is not quite as lucky as he; when he enters the lab after Hermann, he takes one look at the mess, eyes widening, and bolts for one of the large rubbish bins.

“For someone constantly complaining about how hard it is to get hands on his samples, you treat them horribly,” Hermann says, flatly, when the door to Newton’s quarters—on Hermann’s side of the line, much to his consternation—open.

Newton rolls his eyes. “They weren’t preserved properly by the extraction team,” he retorts, “I did everything I could with them. And at least I _could_ do something with them—’s not like your _numbers_. I have concrete results.”

Hermann scowls at him; ears buzzing. “As if you’re the one predicting kaiju emergence dates.”

“As if _you’re_ actually figuring out how to make the Jaegers more effective against the kaiju!”

His hand tightens on his cane. Normally, he wouldn’t engage in an argument so early in the morning, but— “Need I remind you who _codes_ those Jaegers?”

Newton’s face scrunches up; going bright red; and the tips of his ears flush scarlet with blood and petals. “Fuck off,” Newton hisses, “at least _my_ dad doesn’t support the goddamn _coastal wall program_.”

Hermann’s breath catches; and he forgets all about the smugness at drawing a reaction from Newton; leaves him flayed open, still, like a baby bird attempting to fly the nest. His shoulders and arms ache a furious, sharp pain; blocked out after a few moments by his rage at Newton’s low blow.

“At least _I_ don’t worship the beasts that are trying to end the human race!”

Newton takes a step back; face clouding. “Fuck you,” he hisses. “I don’t—I don’t _worship_ them, okay, you know that—”

“Do I? _Do I?_ Did I _ever_ know you?” He’s shouting now; but he can’t bring himself to lower his voice. 

The other’s lips twist into a snarl; and the air between them sits heavy; brittle; sharp; and Hermann waits for him to throw back a cutting response. 

He doesn’t, though; apparently struck wordless with anger; and he just spits at Hermann and turns on his heel, stomping away. A few bright petals fall behind him, and when Hermann looks down, he realises they’ve joined a few yellow flowers of his own on the ground.

He stares at them silently for a moment; the pounding in his head worsening, and then crushes them beneath his shoe, refusing to look at how they bleed into each other.

* * *

When the Beckett brothers went down in 2020, Hermann hadn’t known them well enough to mourn in proper. He had, of course, paid his respects to the elder brother, but he hadn’t been close enough to be as affected as others—such as Tendo Choi—had been.

The same cannot be said for the duo piloting Silver Colossus. 

Cousins by the names of Yi Ling and Ria Ahmed, the two women were some of the first people Hermann had ever spoken to in the shatterdome, and certainly among the first to treat Hermann’s work with respect.

He spent many nights working on coding patches for their Jaeger—a Mark III, commissioned by Singapore, it had had some difficulties; by the time the Mark II’s had been built, Hermann’s work had turned mostly to predicting and studying the Breach, and, as such, the programming for newer Jaegers was not, unfortunately, the same quality.

In the end, not even his attempts to help are enough; for all the sleepless nights he spent fixing errors, it was too little, too late, time always his enemy; and it’s a single line of coding for the plasma canons that sends the Jaeger into paralysis, allowing the kaiju—codenamed Centurion—to get in an ultimately fatal blow.

The two had managed, after the paralysis was resolved twenty seconds later, to take the kaiju down, but the Jaeger had taken too much damage, and the legs had given out, plummeting them beneath the roaring ocean waves, the cockpit, compromised, letting their emergency oxygen supplies escape, leaving the two to drown by the time a chopper had gotten to their last known location eight minutes later.

Hermann sits in his chair; staring blankly at the empty room. Newton’s gone off to...drink himself to death, perhaps; he doesn’t really know—doesn’t, honestly, care. Newton can do as he wishes, can grieve, or can try and party the sorrow away. He’s a full-grown adult.

His gaze locks on the notebooks on his desk, and he remembers scribbling coding modifications for Colossus into it; and before he can even think, he reached for the closest one and thrown it as hard as he can at the wall; the _thunk_ sickening; and then, a second later, does the same with the other three; and then pulls open the draws of the desk violently, dragging every piece of paper and notebook he has from within and hurls them after the first two notebooks.

Then, when everything is out, he pushes himself up from the chair, snatching the notebooks up and tearing the pages out; fingers aching after a few moments, but he snarls at the sensation and rips another handful of papers from the binding.

The papers—covered in his own handwriting, some in pen and some in pencil—fly around him; block his view outside the vortex more than once, but he can’t be bothered to even acknowledge it, too filled with rage and sorrow—

“Hermann— _Hermann!_ ”

He feels someone grasp his arm, trying to stop him; and, in a blind rage, flails; ignoring the pained shout; returns to pulling his notebooks apart.

A second later, though, the pressure returns; this time, grasping both of his arms, and forcing him to be still. “Hermann, fuck, please— _fuck_ , dude, you’ve—you’ve destroyed like two years worth of your work—”

“What does it _matter?_ ” he snarls, twisting to face the person— _Newton_ , of _course_ . “What does it _matter,_ to try and save people—to try and fight a losing war? Look around you, Newton—we’ve lost funding, we’ve lost Jaegers, we’ve lot _millions_ of lives—”

Newton interrupts him. “Sit down. I know you’re upset, but you’re not holding your cane—you’re fucking up your leg. Please, I—” he stops. “I don’t even care about your research, okay, I just don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Hermann’s breaths hiss in and out; rappid; chest rising and falling much faster than he knows, distantly, is normal; and for a few seconds, silence. Then Newton pushes him towards the chair, oddly gentle and careful of his leg.

“I wasn’t fast enough,” he rasps, as Newton presses him into the chair; leg throbbing, white-hot, but he grips the front of Newton’s shirt, desperate. “ _I wasn’t fast enough_ . They _died_ because of me. None of my work was good enough, none of it was—I wasn’t—”

“Hermann. Hermann, _breathe_.” 

The command startles him into silence; and he stares blankly at the other, who demonstrates. “In for three, out for three, okay? Please, Hermann, just—just do it.”

His eyes—wide and blue-green—remind Hermann of the crashing ocean waves of the Miracle Mile; and he feels nauseous; but he tries to do as the biologist asks.

Finally, after what feels like a millennium, the other’s grasp on his forearms loosens. If he could talk, Hermann would thank him for it, but he finds the words refuse to pass his throat. Flowers have blossomed on his leg and his hip, and a few fall from his pants leg.

“You gotta take care of yourself, man,” Newton sighs; and gently unlocks Hermann’s fingers from where they’re dug into his shirt. For all that his voice is even, though, tiny indigo flowers are visible on his fingers—fear, Hermann has learnt, for Newton, usually lays in his hands. 

Hermann lets out a croak of a noise. “My job is to take care of everyone else—what’s the point in doing that if I cannot even fulfil my job?”

Newton frowns at him. “‘s not how it works,” he says; but it’s gentle; and instead of dropping Hermann’s hands, he rubs them with his thumbs, gentle and soothing. “You do your best, and sometimes the odds are stacked against you. And then you lose. And that’s...hard. I’m sorry. I know. But you can’t...you can’t pull yourself apart, okay?”

“What are you going to do, _stop_ me?” The words are hoarse; bitter; and he refuses to meet the other’s gaze.

The other doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes. Because you don’t get to just up and leave, okay? You don’t get to just destroy yourself—’cause humanity needs you, and I...” he trails off. “I’m going to stop you, okay?” he repeats, firmly, and finally lets go of Hermann’s hands. “I’m gonna pick your shit up so you’re not extra frustrated tomorrow.”

Hermann watches him step away; pick up the papers with a gentleness he wouldn’t expect from the man. He’s too exhausted to do any more—the rage has fled him like an exploding balloon, leaving only the pain of his leg and the aching hollowness of sorrow; but something about Newton’s actions makes his chest warm slightly.

Newton finally gets everything up, placing the stack onto the desk. “There,” he says. “I think a few pages are kinda ripped, but I don’t think any of it’s illegible. We can deal with that later—you need to get some rest.”

“I’m fine,” Hermann begins to protest; but the rasp of his voice, and the sudden dizziness that overtakes him makes him stop.

The other gives him a flat stare. “Yeah,” he says; and takes a few steps forward, offering a hand. “I’m gonna help you to your room, okay? I’m not pitying you or whatever,” he adds, before Hermann can even form the retort. “I just need to make sure you’re okay.”

“...alright,” Hermann says, after a beat, and allows the other to help him up.

The walk to his quarters is slow; both from exhaustion and pain; but Newton remains by his side; pushes the door open and leads Hermann to his bed, pulling back the covers.

At any other time, Hermann would protest it; but he’s too tired, and Newton’s touch on his arm is gentle; far more appreciated than he would ever admit. 

After he gets into bed, Newton lets go of his arm; rises, disappearing from his field of vision for a moment. He returns with a glass of water. 

“Thank you,” Hermann murmurs, reaching to take the bottle of pain medication from the bedside table, and swallows one of the pills with a gulp of water.

Newton takes the glass from him; fidgeting with the hem of his shirt; and then says, “Can I stay? Just—just sleep in the chair,” he adds, quickly. “I just...I wanna make sure you’re okay.”

Hermann nods wordlessly; and Newton relaxes noticeably. “Okay,” he says, and sets the glass down; moves to Hermann’s side, pulling the covers up. “It’s an anxious habit,” he mutters, not meeting Hermann’s gaze.

 _I’m not complaining_ , Hermann doesn’t say; just settles down with a sigh. “Thank you for...all of this,” he manages; closing his eyes.

Newton doesn’t reply; and Hermann slips off into sleep.

The next morning, he wakes up with the sleep-tinged impression of someone’s lips pressing gently against his forehead; the memory of it fading away into a dreamlike state.

The only evidence that Newton was ever in his quarters is a few indigo flowers in the chair and a half-full glass on his bedside table.

* * *

It is perhaps an oversight to leave Newton alone after he announces that he’s going to prove him wrong. Hermann had assumed that he would have realised the folly of it—

He doesn’t. He _didn’t;_ and now he’s sprawled on the floor, grasping Hermann’s sweater tightly, bleeding and terrified, pale cream flowers strewn around him.

“You idiot,” Hermann hisses, managing to get him into a chair. “You—you utter _bastard_.”

“G—glad to see you didn’t lose your bite,” Newton retorts, and nearly knocks them both of them to the ground when he trips over his own feet. Hermann doesn’t dignify that with a response; just shoves him into the chair with a grunt.

“Stay,” he says, firmly, and goes over to grab one of Newton’s many mugs, looking for the cleanest one, and fills it up from one of the decontamination sinks, and presses it into Newton’s shaking hands. “Drink,” he says, “you’re probably...probably dehydrated.”

“Hnn,” Newton says, and almost falls out of the chair.

Hermann manages to catch him; but he lets out a wheeze as the air is temporarily knocked out of his lungs. “ _Stay_ ,” he says, again; pushing Newton back into the chair; but it’s less of a command and more of a plea with the universe.

The plea is answered; or at least, partially; because Newton is steady enough to argue, and Hermann feels the relief flood like wildfire through his veins—enough that, for a second, he fears flowers will begin to spill forth from his arms.

But that also means he is steady enough for the Marshal to order him to chase after Hannibal _bloody_ Chau—steady enough to risk his life four more times over, with the danger of the actual search, the danger of the interaction, the danger of being out in the city when there are kaiju set to appear within hours, and, finally, the danger of a second Drift.

He watches Newton walk away, legs still wobbling slightly, nose and eye bloodied, and, for a moment, Hermann hates everything.

Then he sets his jaw and makes his way to the helicopter landing pad to observe the fight between Lady Danger and the kaiju.

They manage to take it down; but Hermann barely cares; the only thought in his mind that now he can go to Newton—Newton, who, against all odds, apparently managed to survive and convince Chau to give him a kaiju brain.

In typical Geiszlerian fashion, though, he gives Hermann no time for questions; merely tells him point-blank that he’s going to Drift again; voice even, but indigo flowers spilling forth from his hands, and shoulders thrown back in an attempt to look broader, too look more in control—and Hermann, without thinking, blurts, “Let me go with you.”

And Newton—

Newton agrees.

* * *

That night, after the festivities become too much, Hermann herds Newton to his quarters. The biologist gives a token protest about wanting to flaunt his rockstar status, but he gives in after only a few moments, eyes already drooping.

He does have the decency to not fall asleep and collapse on the way there, though; saving that for when he’s in his bed; and Hermann tucks him in.

That takes a few minutes; but when he’s done he takes a step away; expecting Newton will sleep through the night—apparently an oversight on his part, for Newton stirs, eyes opening into tiny slits, and his arm snakes out from beneath the covers. “ _Herms_ ,” he mumbles, “d’n go...”

“...oh, alright,” Hermann sighs. “But I’m taking a shower first—you may be willing to merely strip to your boxers and undershirt, but _some_ of us need a more thorough cleaning.”

Newton snorts. “W’ever y’say, man,” he mumbles, “jus’...come back.”

Hermann softens at that. “Of course, Newton,” he murmurs, and finds himself a pair of Newton’s sweatpants and a large sweater that’ll fit him, and slips into the bathroom.

He returns from the bathroom feeling cleaner than he has in days; Newton’s dosed back off, glasses still on. “Oh, darling,” he murmurs, shaking his head, and gently sits down on the edge of the bed, reaching to slip the frames off the bridge of his nose, and settles them on the shelf on the wall, next to one of the many kaiju figurines.

Unfortunately, the action makes Newton rouse; and he blinks at Hermann blearily. “Y’r...still here?” he asks; tentatively; and Hermann nods; not trusting himself to speak. The other nods as well; self-satisfied. “C’mere,” he says, and pushes the covers away, waiting for Hermann to climb in; which he does, a moment later. 

There’s soft petals in the bed, Hermann realises, after a second; and Newton ducks his head. “‘m happy,” he says; “‘bout...you. ‘Cause I wanted you for so long, ‘n’ now you’re...here.”

Hermann swallows thickly. “I...I can’t,” he mutters. “Not—I don’t...not with...not with happiness, or, or...”

Newton’s soft smile turns into a frown; and his eyes open a bit further. “Okay?” he says, “I don’t see—”

“You don’t want me,” he says; as firmly as possible. “Newton, you _don’t_.”

The other’s frown turns into a scowl. “Right now, I _just_ want _you_ ,” he says, reaching out to put his hand on Hermann’s shoulder. “Even though you don’t believe me, and that’s very, very rude of you.”

“My apologies,” Hermann mutters; not meeting his eyes.

The other sighs. “Hey, no,” he says, “I’m not...I’m not upset at you, okay? I just...it makes me sad to know that you think I would stop wanting you just ‘cause, what, some symbiotic organism in your blood doesn’t respond to positive emotions the way most peoples’ do?”

“...yes,” Hermann admits, after a beat; realising how absurd it sounds. Newton must recognise his thought, because his frown softens.

“I do want you, dude, okay? I promise,” he says; and shifts until they’re chest to chest; takes Hermann’s hand and presses it to his chest. “See? My heart’s beating normally—’s a sign I’m telling the truth.”

That startles a quiet laugh from Hermnan. “You’re absurd,” he murmurs.

“Don’t you know ridiculous is my middle name?” Newton teases; and curls his fingers between Hermann’s, and leans in to kiss him gently.

“Thank you,” Hermann whispers, when they pull apart; and he attempts a proper smile.

It must work, because Newton gives a dazzling one of his own. “Okay,” he says, “sleep time now, though, ‘cause I’m tired as fuck.”

Hermann’s lips twitch up further. “Seconded,” he says, and closes his eyes, revelling in the closeness and warmth.

* * *

The next few weeks are spent squaring away the remains of their research during the day, and curling up together at night. From that, it’s a fairly natural transition to getting flats across the hall from each other after the shatterdome is cleared. 

For all that they live separately on paper, though, the reality of it is that they spend more time together than apart—so much so that when, one morning, Hermann opens the refrigerator to find the jug of milk empty, he gives a sigh and calls, “Newton!”

There’s a bit of shuffling and then Newton’s head peaks around the corner from the living room. “Uh, what’s up?” he asks. 

Hermann holds up the offending jug. “You’ve used up the last of the milk,” he says. “We need to go grocery shopping.”

“No we don’t,” Newton protests, “we still have..” His gaze slides down to the open refrigerator, which is mostly bare. “Oh,” he says. 

“Yes, _oh_. And we’re running low on flour and butter,” Hermann adds. 

The other grimaces. “Alright,” he says, “gimme a few to get changed into, uh, normal clothes, and then we can go.”

“‘ _Normal clothes_ ’—?” Hermann cuts himself off as Newton leans further into the kitchen, in all his short-shorts-and-mesh-tee’d glory.

“Yeah,” Newton says, deadpan.

Hermann gives a quiet—the man is absolutely absurd. He sets down the empty jug and closes the refrigerator, returning to the book he's been working on, suggested to him by his therapist, as he waits for Newton to get himself presentable.

Once Newton’s gotten changed into something more socially acceptable, they make for the grocer’s—a decently sized, locally owned store that Newton had found when they first moved on one of his walks. 

They locate about half of the items fairly easily; the layout of the store half familiar; but the rest—the dairy, eggs, and about three quarters of the vegetables elude them.

“Here,” Newton says, pulling out his phone and snapping a photo of the list, “you go get the veggies, I’ll get the rest.”

There’s something in his tone that Hermann can’t properly read, but he can’t deny the logic of it, so he nods. “Alright,” he says, “oh—and remember that it’s mild, not sharp cheddar.”

“I’ll remember,” Newton promises, eyes twinkling, and takes off in the opposite direction. Hermann finds himself smiling slightly involuntarily at the enthusiasm; and stops, for a moment, taken aback at his own reaction, before he shakes himself and heads towards where he thinks the fresh vegetables probably are, absent-mindedly scratching the inside of his wrist that’s prickling for no reason he can discern.

After getting lost for a bit in the grains section—he’s sorely tempted by the sheer variety and barely resists the temptation to buy some—, he finally locates the fresh produce aisle.

His memory is fairly good, but he checks the list again after putting everything into the cart anyway, and it’s a good thing he does, because he’s managed to miss a few things—nothing too vital, but Hermann’s rather fond of mushrooms, and a good half of the meals he makes would be subpar without them. 

He meets Newton in the bread aisle; a bit later than expected, but Newton shrugs and says that he got sidetracked by the ice-cream a bit. The other’s picked up a basket to carry the items he grabbed with. “Mild, just like you asked,” he says, proudly, showing Hermann the brick of cheese in question. 

“Thank you, darling. You’ll have to carry the basket to checkout, though,” Hermann tells him. “As you can see, the cart is a bit full.”

The other shrugs. “‘s fine,” he replies. “I’ve got big, strong arms anyway—I’ll be fine. See?” He hefts the basket up. “Pushing around all those kaiju sample tanks _did_ do me good, Herms.”

“...perhaps,” Hermann allows, and begins to push the cart with one hand, Newton falling into step by his side. “Though I think the entire shatterdome would have preferred you get your workout some other way.”

Newton scoffs. “Whatever,” he says, waving his free hand, “I saved the world ‘cause of it.”

“Helped,” Hermann corrects, “but alright.”

They’ve reached the self-checkout by now; and they run through that like a well-oiled machine; Hermann scanning and Newton bagging; and within five minutes everything’s paid for, and they go and load it into the car.

The drive back to the flat is fairly quiet; Newton, for once, seems happy to silently contemplate whatever’s on his mind. Hermann, for his part, leans back in his seat and lets his eyes slip closed, enjoying the ability to even _try_ to relax—a novelty, after twelve years of constant vigilance and half a decade of evermore frantic work.

The rest does him good; he feels more refreshed as they get out of the car and carry the bags into the elevator, which creaks a bit as it carries them up to the second floor; the sound, familiar as it already is, somewhat comforting.

When they get inside, Newton sets down the grocery bags he’s carrying. “Hey,” he says, “wait a sec.”

“What?” Hermann asks, turning to him; and then stops.

Newton pulls his hand out from one of the bags. “I got you one of those little yogurts you like,” he mumbles. “You, uh. I know you really like them, but you haven’t had any in years ‘cause of rationing, so when I saw them, I grabbed one for you.” His ears are pink.

Hermann’s silent for a moment; unable to speak—such a small act, irrelevant, really, in the larger scheme of things, but his chest feels tight; throat closing in on itself. Then he hisses, “Ow!”

Newton’s brows furrow. “Shit, did something happen? Are you okay—?”

“...my wrist,” Hermann says, the words hardly feeling his own. He turns it over.

There’s two small, delicate, cream-coloured petals sitting on the skin; and he gapes at them, wordlessly. 

Newton, on the other hand, lets out a laugh. “Oh my god,” he says. “Oh my god—Hermann, you—! That’s a _flower!_ ”

“But...that’s never happened before,” Hermann says; not quite believing his own eyes. “I... _never_ ...” His mind is racing, suddenly; and the past twenty-four years flash before his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt _that_ before,” he says, finally.

“What?”

“...happy,” Hermann murmurs, and sits down heavily on the couch. “I’ve never...felt properly _happy._ ”

Newton winces. “Fuck,” he says. “I mean, I knew you had, like, a shitty childhood, but I didn’t realise that it made things _that_ bad...”

“The aliens trying to destroy humanity might have impacted my mental health somewhat.”

The words burst from him, deadpan, and Newton lets out a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I mean. You’re right. Uh—do you still want the yoghurt...?”

“Yes please,” Hermann says, eyes still closed.

A few moments later, the couch next to him dips. “Here,” Newton says; and Hermann opens his eyes to find him holding a spoon and the yogurt out in one hand. “Uh—I also grabbed these off the floor,” Newton says, and opens his other hand, revealing the two petals.

Hermann’s heart gives a shuddering jerk. “Thank you,” he says, quietly. “Er...do you mind if I lean against you?”

Newton shakes his head. “Course not. C’mere.” He adjusts his position so Hermann’s leaning up against his chest, and wraps his arm around his waist, the petals cradled in his palm. “This good?”

“Yes,” Hermann says. “Yes, it is. Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
